


It's Just a Gimmick

by Erin_Leigh



Category: Original Work
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M, Massage, Orgasm Denial, Teasing, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but it's not sad either, femboy, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:33:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29272539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erin_Leigh/pseuds/Erin_Leigh
Summary: He wears everything like it was made specifically for him. His long legs are wrapped in sheer, black hose that end just at the hem of a tight skirt, and every step gives a flash of the garters that hold them up.The skirt itself hangs low enough to show off the bony dips of his hips. Even with his flat chest and narrow waist, the tight-fitting deep purple halter top looks sexier than lacy lingerie.Oh god.It's just a gimmick, I remind myself.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	It's Just a Gimmick

'Do you prefer a man or a woman?'

That is the question always asked when I schedule a massage, and it's one I always struggle with.

A man has a firmer touch that can knead away any stress with ease, but there's a part of me that feels uncomfortable having a man rubbing his hands along my back and legs. At the same time, some women keep their nails too long, and it feels a little bit like cheating on my wife.

I need a massage soon, though. The daily stresses of work, marriage, and kids pile up over time until I can't move my shoulders without feeling like my muscles are made of stone.

And that's when, half serious and half as a joke, I search for 'androgynous masseuse'. The third result is a forum where someone has expressed the same conflict I have, and there is a response that gives me pause.

'Have you considered femboys? Best of both worlds, and usually young, too, so it doesn't feel as sexual.'

I'm not prepared for the images that pull up as a result of searching for femboys. More than that, I'm not prepared for how those images make me feel.

Young men so beautiful that they could easily be mistaken for women. Makeup that draws out their feminine features. Tight, revealing clothes that shows off their thin bodies, long limbs, small waists...

I've never been more aroused in my life.

As quickly as I can, I close the browser and slide back from my desk, heart pounding. I try to think of anything else. Just down the hall, my wife and kids are sleeping.

It's the stress, I tell myself. Just the stress. I need to go get a massage as soon as possible.

But that thought just takes me further down the rabbit hole. If I book a massage right now, I'd pick a male masseuse, because that's what I normally select.

Which makes some part of me wonder: why would a 'femboy' be any different?

I stand and hurry out of the office to go to bed. My wife stirs as I slide under the covers, but she doesn't wake up.

As I lie there, I realize how loud silence is. How many thoughts can fill a quiet room. How hard it is to keep my eyes closed when my mind is racing.

What if it was just like that stranger said? Less sexual because they were young? Best of both worlds?

I have to know. I would try it, and if I don't like it, then I just won't do it again. Worst case, I'm out money and time, and I can spare them for the sake of trying something new.

When sleep seems like it will never come, I climb back out of bed.

"You okay?" my wife asks, her voice muffled by half of her face buried against the pillow.

I feel her words more than I hear them, like a little spark of electricity along my nerves. "Yes, sorry. Just not tired."

She mumbles something that sounds understanding, and doesn't otherwise move. I feel every step send another jolt up my spine as I walk out of the room and down the hall.

The office seems further away than ever. Part of me says I should just turn around now, go back to bed, maybe kiss my wife.

But instead, I sit down at the desk and turn the computer on.

It takes a bit of careful searching and vetting; the first one is dishearteningly sketchy and a poor cover for prostitution. The second, though.

The second one seems legitimate. No "glad conclusions" or "body-to-body massages". Everything seems exactly the same as the other massage parlors and spas I've been to before. The only difference is that it is entirely staffed by "effeminent young men"--which they make sound more like the gimmick of a Hooters than some kind of sex trafficking.

So, I book it. One 90-minute full-body massage. I almost stop to consider a hot-stone add-on, but I just want to book the appointment before I can talk myself out it it.

The website happily declares I have a massage scheduled with Jeanette.

It's just a gimmick. Like that moving company, College Hunks Hauling Junk. Something to differentiate from the competition.

I sit back in my chair and stare at the confirmation screen, as if I expect it to mock me or turn into a porn site.

It’s just a massage. It’s no different from any other massage I’ve had before. I wasn’t nervous about those, so why should I be nervous about this one?

Of course, that’s exactly what I am all week: nervous. I’m nervous as I mention the massage to my wife the next day, and she smiles as she tells me to enjoy it. I’m nervous as I sit at work and someone asks me what I’ve got planned for the weekend.

And, on Friday, I’m especially nervous as I approach the inconspicuous building that has been occupying my nearly every thought. It's just a simple two-story building with an unassuming exterior and a wooden sign out front that reads: Serenity Senses Spa.

I walk inside and take a cursory glance around the lobby. It has the usual water feature in a corner accompanied by soft instrumental music off to one side with ample seating that's always empty. I turn my attention to the front desk and that’s when I’m confronted with the one thing that isn’t textbook.

The receptionist is a cute teenager in women’s clothing. They have long dark brown hair that's pulled to the left so the high cheekbones are prominently in display on the right.

They. I know they're a he, but it's hard to think of the person in front of me as 'he' when I'm faced with smooth porcelain skin that contrasts with black eyeliner and plump, rosy red lips.

"Hi!" he chirps in a sing-song voice that makes it even more difficult to not see a cute young girl. "How may I help you, hun?"

I swallow, though it's difficult when my throat has gone dry. "I... have a massage scheduled. With Jeanette."

"Oh, with Jeanette, huh?" The receptionist grins. "You won't be disappointed. He's one of our best! Just fill out this little document and he'll be right out to get you."

"Thanks," I say absently as I take the offered clipboard and go to one of the seats.

It's exactly the same as any place else. Standard questionnaire about any recent surgeries, known allergies, and other medical concerns. I don't know why, but I'm a little disappointed.

Maybe it really is just a gimmick after all.

After five or ten minutes of staring off into space and trying not to think too hard about everything, I hear the sound of high heels clicking against hardwood.

I turn my head and there, walking toward me, is... the most beautiful person I've ever seen.

He wears everything like it was made specifically for him. His long legs are wrapped in sheer, black hose that end just at the hem of a tight skirt, and every step gives a flash of the garters that hold them up.

The skirt itself hangs low enough to show off the bony dips of his hips. Even with his flat chest and narrow waist, the tight-fitting deep purple halter top looks sexier than lacy lingerie.

Oh god.

It's just a gimmick, I remind myself.

I open my mouth to speak, but he presses a thin finger to my lips. “Shhh,” he purrs. “I’m Jeanette, and I’m going to be taking care of you today.”

I nod, silently.

He crooks the finger to beckon me to follow before he turns away and starts to walk. Each click of his heel is like some kind of bomb ticking down, but I’m already here. I follow, and I try not to stare at the way his hips move back and forth—not an exaggerated swish, but a subtle, gliding motion with each step forward.

He leads me down a dimly lit corridor and holds open a door to an equally dim room. Again, just like everything except the staff, it’s the same as any normal spa. There’s the long table in the center, covered in a thin white sheet with a cushioned headrest at one end. A counter along the wall stores what I recognize as oils, lotions, a towel warmer, and the other standard equipment.

Just a gimmick.

As Jeanette shuts the door, he says, “Now, what should I call you? Mister? Sir?” His lips twitch into a smirk. “Daddy?”

I nearly choke, and he continues with a lilting laugh, “I’m kidding. This is just a massage; I’m not going to call you anything.” He winks. “What I am going to do is ask that you remove whatever you’re comfortable without. When I get back, I’ll start your massage face-down first. Any questions?”

I’m sure my face must be flushed. I shake my head a little too quickly. “No questions.”

“Good boy.” He turns back to the door, and I can’t stop my eyes from flicking down to watch the little twirl. “I’ll be back in just a moment.”

He leaves, shutting the door behind him, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding in. I’ve never been to a Hooters, but I’m sure the busty waitresses flirt with the customers. Because, as I keep repeating to myself: it’s just a gimmick.

My hands shake a little as I undress, and I hesitate once everything is off but my boxers. I should just leave them on, right? I did for my first couple massages. After I’d gotten more comfortable with the idea, I started to remove them, too.

I decide to treat this like a normal massage, because that’s all it is, and my boxers go along in the neatly folded stack of my other clothes.

The table is heated, and as soon as I’m under the drape with my face nestled in the headrest, I feel a sudden sense of calm. It’s like my muscles know they’re about to get the stress worked out of them, and already that eases some of the tension that had been holding everything tightly together.

A moment later, the door opens, and the clicking heels are back. Jeanette, just like any other masseuse, doesn’t say anything and simply gets started. His hands are slick with warm oil that he begins to rub into my shoulders.

Through the hole in the headrest, I can see his shoes. Shiny black stilettos with little diamond-studded straps. How does he even walk in them? I’d break an ankle if I tried.

His hands move in semi-circular motions with varying degrees of pressure, up and down along the edge of my shoulder blades. A muscle goes taut and hurts—in a good way—as it’s pushed around by a touch that is firm without feeling like the large, masculine hands of a man.

The best of both worlds, just as the internet had said.

I find myself so completely relaxed that I do something I’ve never done before: I let out a small moan that seems loud in the relative quiet of the room.

“Oh?” Jeanette pauses, his fingers splayed along the small of my back. “Is it too mu?”

“N-No,” I stammer. “Sorry. I’m fine. It’s just… very good.”

I can almost hear a grin in his voice. “I’m glad.”

His hands slide back up to the base of my neck, rubbing and caressing as they start down my right arm. My eyes start to droop as he trails his soft fingers down mine, giving each one a soft tug before tracing along my palms and back up to my shoulder.

He repeats with the left arm before his hands slide down my back and he starts to walk down the length of the table. His fingertips never leave my skin except to trail over the white drape that covers my middle.

Goosebumps are left in the wake of his touch as he presses, briefly, along the curve of my ass and down my thighs.

Each nerve his fingers brush over are alight with nervous energy. I feel everything, every little touch and squeeze as he massages my legs. The relaxation has been swept away by a rush of heat.

And it's not just the warmth of the oil, or even his skin. It's the thing I thought had settled down and gone away: arousal.

It was just a brush of one buttock, but it brought everything I had shoved aside back into focus.

I want him to touch me like that. I want his hands to wander higher as he works on my thighs.

I want this for more than just the massage.

That is the moment his hands pull away and he says, "All right. Time to roll over onto your back."

I hesitate. There is no way I can do that without exposing myself. The cloth drape keeps me decent but it doesn't protect me from being indecent; nothing is going to be hidden by them.

Struggling to think of an excuse, I say lamely, "I, uh… I have a bad shoulder."

"Oh, no," he says, and I can hear in his voice that he knows I'm lying. "Well, it's a good thing I just massaged the knots out of those shoulders."

Yeah, I don't know why I thought that would work.

I slowly shift beneath the drape, and now I can see Jeanette. His eyes are locked on my groin, where my erection tents against the cloth.

He stands at my feet and bites his lip. His eyes dart to meet mine, then he smiles sweetly.

"Yes, the corpora cavernosa does often lead to shoulder pain."

I don't know what that is, but I can read context clues. It must be a pelvic muscle or something involved in erections.

He pours more oil into his hands and begins to massage my legs, working his way up to my inner thighs.

"Were the special add-ons explained to you when you scheduled this?" His fingertips brush the skin just beneath the sheet before sliding back down to my knees.

I stare up at the ceiling and try to control my breathing. "Yes. I thought about the hot stones."

His hands pause on my thighs, and for a moment only his thumbs move in small, slow circles. "And the upgrade from full-body to whole-body?"

I pause. I vaguely recall seeing that on the services list. At the time, I'd just thought it was one of those 'essential oils holistic wellness' deals.

Now, I realize it's probably something else.

"What is that?" I ask, unable to take my eyes away from his as they stare at me with my erection jutting into the air between us.

He smiles and leans forward. His hands slide just a bit higher up my thighs. The flickering candlelight casts shadows across the sharp angles of his body, and with the way he's bent forward, I can see the smooth front of his halter top is interrupted by two round, perky nipples pressing against the purple fabric.

"The whole-body massage is a complete and ultimate indulgence of all senses."

His lips curl the smile into something just a shade more mischievous. As he speaks, his hands slide higher and higher until they are just shy of my groin. He's bent over the table, and I can feel the warmth of his breath through the sheet.

"We pride ourselves on how thoroughly we can give our clients total relaxation of mind, body, and spirit."

This is it. The 'glad conclusion'. The words accompanied by winks and nudges that don't fool anyone.

I swallow. "How much is the upgrade?" 

He sighs, and his lips purse in thought. "Ordinarily, it would only be an $80 upgrade from full-body to whole-body. But we're already halfway through, I'll have to start over. That means an additional fee for the extended time…"

"What if you just continue from here?"

He stands up straight and squeezes my ankles. "I have a reputation! I can't have you giving a disappointed review because you chose not to experience everything you paid for."

I close my eyes, because the sight of his lips hovering near my erection is only making things harder—literally.

I can't. I shouldn't.

But I also know that this is why I was here, even if I couldn't admit it to myself.

"I might as well," I say, my throat tight. "If you can accommodate the extended time."

He pulls his hands back, and I open my eyes to see the candlelight flicker across his smile.

"It would be my pleasure," he says with a slight purr in his voice. "Then let's start from the beginning. Back on your stomach, please."

I roll over, wincing as my aching member is trapped between my stomach and the table. And then all of my attention is ripped away when the sheet is pulled away and I hear his heels clatter to the floor, followed by the weight of him climbing on top of my legs.

The hose he wears glides against my skin as he crawls over me, soft and smooth and without an ounce of friction. His knees are on either side of me, and he lowers himself to sit on the curve where my buttocks meet my thighs.

I'm overwhelmed by the way my leg hairs that catch against the nylon, and how the little plastic garter clips dig into my skin. But most of all, there is the heat and the weight of his balls wrapped in silky, lacy underwear. They rest against my cheeks, and my thoughts are now consumed by his cock.

Is it tucked in the elastic of his panties? Is that why I don't feel it? Or maybe it's small. Maybe that was why he looked so feminine—low testosterone?

I almost don't even notice his hands running along my back and shoulders. I can't stop thinking about how his legs and balls are pressed so close that every little movement he makes just rubs them against my skin.

As he leans further forward to slide his hands down both my arms, I finally feel it. And it's not small in the least.

His breath is hot against the back of my neck as he says, "I won't lie, I was hoping you'd pick the whole-body massage. I am disappointed you didn't also get the deep touch, though."

I swallow, staring wide-eyed at the floor through the hole in the headrest. Is he rolling his hips on purpose? It can't be accidental that the hot, hard length is lined up at the very center of my ass.

"Deep touch?" I ask, trying to keep my tone even.

"Oh, yes. You're so tense! You desperately need it, in my opinion." His voice drops lower. "The deep touch add-on lets me work out your deepest kinks."

My breath catches in my throat as I struggle to ask, "Kinks?"

He sits up and rubs circles into the small of my back. "Kinks. Everyone has them, don't worry, there's nothing wrong with you." He gives a quiet, breathless laugh. "You just seem to be carrying yours deep, deep down."

I clench my eyes shut. Even if he hadn't seen how aroused I'd been, of course he'd know. What normal person wanted a massage from a young man in women's clothing?

God, how had I convinced myself this was just a gimmick?

"No, thanks," I say in a tight voice. "Just the massage."

His fingers press against a tight band of muscle that aches from the touch. "You sure? It's only an extra $40."

I breathe in through my nose and say on the exhale, "I'm sure."

I can feel his shrug from the shift of his weight. "All right, but you'll be back when these kinks come to the surface."

No. I won't. This was a mistake. I will just stick to the regular, simple, straightforward massages… emphasis on the straight.

"Like this one." He presses on that tight muscle again and pushes against it, and the pain edges on just the other side of bearable. "This little kink of muscle is going to make it impossible for you to bend over."

I pause. "Kink… of muscle?" 

His fingers rub a gentle figure eight that soothes the pain back into relief. "Yeah?" 

I can't hold back the embarrassed laugh. "Oh. Right. Right, of course."

He leans forward and I can feel him again, hot and straining against the silk. The laugh dies in my throat.

"Oh, you're naughty," he whispers. "Did you think I meant sex? Is that what you came here for?"

I quickly shake my head as much as I can without lifting it from the headrest. "No! I just misunderstood. Sorry."

He hums and he pushes himself up on his knees to lift off me. "Turn over."

I hesitate just like before, but he clears his throat impatiently. I shift beneath him to move onto my side, then my back, my movement restricted by his legs crowding me in.

Before I can finish changing positon, I'm confronted with the sight of his skirt tented at the front, and his wicked little smile. Flickering candlelight dances across his skin, accentuating the sharp angles of his face.

"Because if it is, you should have just said so from the start."

My eyes dart between his groin and his face. "It… It's not. I just want a massage. This—" 

His fingertip presses to my lips. "Shhh. No words. Just nod your head if you want to add the deep touch to your massage."

I swallow. His eyes bore into me, and I know he can see it all.

My fear. My uncertainty. My desire. My shame.

Even though I am a grown man more than twice his age, I'm trembling beneath him. I feel like the child here, and I stare up at him, seeking his guidance.

If I don't nod, then I can't say I asked for it. But if I don't shake my head, then he can't say I didn't want it.

So I stay perfectly still and just wait, unable to breathe more than strictly necessary.

His lips curl, turning his smile into something more devious. "That's a good man," he says, and he leans down as if to kiss me.

I lean back to keep the distance between us, but he doesn't go for my lips. Instead, he just hovers above my chest and blows cool air over my right nipple.

"Deep touch isn't what it sounds like," he explains as he does the same to the left. "You probably think it means deep tissue, but then it'd be called that."

"Then what is it?" I shudder as he starts to shuffle back, each movement rubbing our legs together.

He blows against my navel and flashes a brief smile. "It's a touch that reaches deeper than skin. Do you even notice the tension in your back right now?"

The muscles along my abdomen twitch under his breathy ministrations, but to his credit, I don't feel any tension. At least not the kind that a regular massage can ease.

"Good," he says when I just continue to stare at him. "Ready for the best part?"

I hold my breath and watch, unmoving, unblinking, as he ghosts his lips over the head and shaft of my cock. There's no actual contact, just the rush of air as he blows.

My head falls back against the headrest and I gasp for air. How is it possible for this to be more arousing than if he just took me in mouth? How was less somehow more?

One of his legs moves to nudge mine apart and settles between them. He braces himself with his hands on my hips and slides the leg higher until his knee presses against my balls.

I had never thought about nylon so much in my life. I've always enjoyed it when my wife would wear them with a dress on special occasions. Sometimes I would just find any excuse to touch her legs so I could feel how effortlessly my fingers would glide over them.

Silk is nice, but a little too slippery. Lace is pleasant to look at, but it catches and falls apart too easily. And fishnet… I don't even have anything nice to say about that.

Nylon, though. The only downside to nylon was that it tore so easily, but even that wasn't always a problem. Depending on the situation, it was a little fun when it got caught and unraveled as I pulled it off her.

But I'd never felt it so intimately before. I'd only ever stroked it with my fingertips or brushed my leg against my wife's. She'd never pressed so close that I could feel the tight weave of fabric drag across my skin. 

I'd certainly never had my most intimate area enveloped in the softness and smoothness of nylon.

I'd never felt it against my inner thighs, my groin. And, as Jeanette lifted his knee, I had never considered what it would feel like against the hard, aching shaft of my cock.

My lungs start to burn and I realize that I've stopped breathing. I gasp for air and try to fight the primal urge to grind myself against his knee.

I want to believe it's because this reminds me off my wife's legs in hose. I'm still a faithful husband if she's the one on my mind, right?

But my eyes flick, almost as if in spite, to the most prominent difference between Jeanette and my wife: the sizable erection that has hiked his skirt higher up his thighs.

I don't want it inside me or anything like that. I just want to touch it, hold it, feel it. After all, it's normal to be curious. Practically human nature.

He runs his hands up from my waist up to my shoulders, then drags his fingers slowly through my chest hair. All the while, he keeps up a steady pressure against my groin with his knee.

When he leans in to whisper in my ear, I nearly jump. "You like that?" he asks in a voice that's both as sweet and as thick as honey.

I glance away and try to sound unaffected. "It's fine."

He sucks in his lower lip and bites it, suppressing a grin. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," I manage between clenched teeth.

"Your eyes say different things."

"Do they?" My voice cracks as if I'm the teenager.

"Yeah, they do," he says, then straightens up and towers over me.

It's all I can do not to grab him by the shoulders and throw him down on the massage table. Jeanette runs his hands over my chest, up to my shoulders, then down my arms.

He leans forward and moves his lips to my ear again. "I can make it feel good," he whispers. "If you want me to."

His words send a shudder through me. My skin breaks out in chills and I feel a throb in my cock.

"I'm a married man."

"Then why are you here?"

I open my mouth to answer, then close it. I can't very well tell him the truth. "It's complicated."

"Is it?" he says, running his hand over my inner thigh. "It looks pretty simple to me."

I swallow hard and look away.

He leans close to my face and parts his lips just slightly. I feel myself being drawn into temptation—a need that is alien to everything I know about myself.

I want to say no. But I don't. All I do is look into his eyes and let him come to me.

Then he pulls back before our lips meet, and the heat of embarrassment at my disappointment spreads like fire across my face.

I can feel everywhere he doesn't touch as he moves down my neck and blows softly on the curve where it meets my shoulder.

His oil-slick hand grabs my hand and pulls it to him. I feel the warm, wet tip of his tongue run along my palm, then tickle the sensitive inside of my wrist.

I try to stifle a moan, and he quickly lets go of my hand.

"Sorry," he says in a voice that is anything but. "I forgot. You didn't pay for that service."

I gaze up at him, hot and cold all over. "I thought the whole-body massage was the ultimate experience?"

His eyes meet mine for an instant and I can feel the heat of his gaze all the way down to your groin.

"It is," he says.

I take a shallow breath. "Then what else could there be?"

His gaze drops to my mouth. "Well, it's not a service, exactly. But if you promise to include a big tip to show your appreciation…"

He tilts his head and moves even closer, so that our faces are so close I can catch a whiff of something that's either cologne or perfume. It's soft and citrusy, something like a floral orange. Do orange trees flower?

I nod, just barely, just enough. He smiles.

And then he stops. "Oh," he says, and backs away. "We're out of time."

I'm caught off guard as his warmth leaves my skin, and I feel like I've been dropped off a ledge. I prop myself up on my elbows to look at him. "What?"

He bends over to pick his discarded heels off the floor. I'm treated to an unobstructed view of his ass, round and clad in women's underwear that hide nothing.

He looks over his shoulder at me and smiles. "Your massage is over."

I open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off. "If you want, you can always come back and see me again." His voice is light—almost daring me to refuse.

The sly smile creeps back onto his face as he waits for my answer. I just stare for a moment, lost and confused.

"But I..." I look down at my erection that twitches, desperate for the touch of his knee again. "I..."

He smiles, and for a moment I feel like the entire world narrows down to just the two of us—that nothing exists outside of this moment.

"Oh, honey." He lifts one leg and reaches down to snap the buckle of his heel into place. "This was just a massage, remember?"

I can't speak. I don't know what I'd even try to say.

He winks and gives a flick of his wrist in a dismissive little wave. "I'll be waiting, unless you break your promise."

And then he leaves.

I stare at the door, unable to breathe. I have so many questions that no one can possibly answer.

But I do know one thing, even if I don't understand it: I can't afford to risk not leaving a tip.


End file.
